


The Dangers of Alcohol

by Wicked42 - Spider-Man (Wicked42)



Series: Wicked's PS4 Spider-Verse [4]
Category: Spider-Man (Video Game 2018), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: College Setting, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Fraternities & Sororities, MJ has a crush, MJ hunts a rapist, Protective Peter Parker, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Underage Drinking, adorable ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-02 08:43:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18807694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wicked42/pseuds/Wicked42%20-%20Spider-Man
Summary: 19 year old MJ has a major crush on Peter Parker, but--girls like her don't get the superheroes. So maybe it's time to prove herself.Or, MJ hunts a college rapist to impress Peter, and then Peter goes and screws everything up.Set in my own little Wicked-verse, which is an expanded version of the PS4 video game. :D





	The Dangers of Alcohol

**Author's Note:**

> Parts of this might seem steamy, but this is T at best. Sorry for anyone hoping for more. XD 
> 
> Wicked42's mottos:  
> ~ Don't drink underage.  
> ~ Don't knowingly put yourself in danger.  
> ~ NEVER accept a drink from someone you don't know.  
> ~ Don't kiss your best friend while drunk.
> 
> Be safe out there, guys! ;)

Wasn’t her fault Peter looked adorable, even fleeing for their freedom.

MJ was panting, laughing, as she tugged him into a dark alley on the north side of campus. The Fulton Engineering building loomed over them, with just a few feet of empty space between it and the Cophisa dorms. She pushed him further into the shadows as a cop car swept past, sirens blaring.

“Should we be—”

“Shh, _shhh_ ,” MJ interrupted, giggling as she pressed a finger to Peter’s open mouth.

He took her hand. “Mary Jane, are you sure you’re—”

“Oh, I’m definitely drunk,” she replied, matter-of-fact. The absurdity of it made her laugh outright; she’d _had drinks_ before, sure, but never enough to make the world spin this way, to make her stomach flip when she closed her eyes. Everything felt bright and hazy, and it was excellent.

They’d done it.

No, _she’d_ done it. Mary Jane Watson, investigative reporter, catching criminals with her pal Spider-Man. The alcohol she’d fought all night swept over her like a tsunami, and this time, she embraced it.

“I’m aware you’re drunk. I just didn’t realize how—”

“I’m drunk, and you’re adorable.”

Because honestly? Screw Rachel and her “ _is Peter single”_ bullshit. Screw the idea that MJ wasn’t worthy of him, just because he traipsed around in spandex and she wrote articles instead. They could both bring criminals to justice.

Tonight was evidence of that.

Peter’s cheeks tinged pink at her comment, and a thrill raced up MJ’s spine. Jesus, she had it bad. And frankly, she was tired of fighting it, tired of pretending she didn’t adore everything about him, that she didn’t spend her nights imagining what they could be together.

Why keep it a secret? She’d fallen hard, and now was the time to _finally_ let him know.

Especially considering how, in the dark of the alley, with her heart racing and head swimming and the asphalt hard and cold under her bare feet, he looked like a fucking Greek god. Muscles and plaid shirt and all.

 _Corded_ muscles and _tight_ plaid shirt and all.

God, she should have done this weeks ago.

She traced the hard definition of his bare forearm. His entire body tensed under her touch, which made her laugh again, breathless. “It’s true, Tiger. You’re hot as—”

“ _MJ_ ,” Peter said, and it sounded more like a plea than anything. “I need you to focus. You didn’t drink his—”

Peter cut himself off then, suddenly pressing MJ against the rough brick wall.

MJ’s stomach flipped as she laughed again. “Wow, Parker, you’re bold tonight. Must be the dress.”

“Please, _please_ be quiet.”

His hands were on her shoulder, her waist, grip tightening to keep her steady as footsteps thundered closer. MJ held her breath, distantly thinking it was a good thing she was braced against the wall, a good thing Peter was holding her, because the alley whirled.

Far easier to center herself by staring at one thing. She chose Peter’s face, because _damn_. He was clean-shaven, his square jaw tense as he watched the cops sprinting past. Kind of a shame Spider-Man wore a mask; New York was really missing out.

People were shouting, a few women screamed and laughed, and it sounded like chaos. Not the dangerous chaos of a deadly attack, but the breathless excitement of an interrupted, illicit party. Who’d get free, and who’d be caught?

Consequences? Who cared?

Not MJ.

Right now, with Peter’s body flush against hers, this moment was all that existed. She felt breathless, body thrumming with anticipation. He was so close.

What would happen if he just… moved his hips? If she wrapped her arms around his neck, tugged his hair, kissed him hard, and his hands wound around her waist and his head dropped to her shoulder and they just tried this?

God, it’d be so hot.

What did her sister used to say, when it came to men and sex? No time like the present?

While she toyed with that, Peter relaxed, stepping back until he bumped into the opposite wall. It was only a foot or so; if he thought this was _giving her space_ , he was sorely mistaken.

“Okay. I think they’re go—mmph!”

MJ’s lips cut him off.

Shit, alcohol was _fun_.

 

* * *

 

 

“I don’t like this,” Peter said, earlier that night.

MJ glanced at the pink paper in her hands, the address neatly printed on the front, then double-checked the townhome number. They were only a street north of campus, but this didn’t _look_ like the Psi Kappa Delta house. And it certainly didn’t sound like an all-out, no-limits college party.

She pressed her lips together, squinting at the property. “Maybe we’re early.”

A convertible cruised by with the top down, and a few college kids whistled raucously.

“Hey there, girlie. Love that ass,” one crooned, and the others burst into laughter as the car careened around the corner.

Peter stiffened, glaring after them.

MJ ignored them with practiced ease, checked the address again.

“Yeah, I think we’re early,” she repeated, glancing at her phone. “I figured 9pm would be about right, but apparently I’m not good at this. Let’s circle the block.”

“Maybe the party’s not happening tonight.” Peter’s fists slowly unclenched, but he still sent another dirty look after the convertible, even though it was long gone. “We should probably go back to the dorms. Not do… whatever this is.”

“It’s called a party. And _you’re_ the one who volunteered to come with me. If you want to go patrol instead, I’ll be fine alone.” MJ shot him a grin as she started walking, her red heels clicking against the concrete.

Peter fell in line beside her, positioning himself between her and the street. She nearly rolled her eyes at his chivalry, but, well, that was Peter. And lately, she’d been noticing his chivalry more and more.

It didn’t mean anything.

But her heart fluttered traitorously anyway.

“I’m not—” he cut himself off with a strangled groan. “Patrol can wait. What about a movie night? We haven’t had one of those in a while.”

“You just want me to watch Star Wars again,” MJ said, drily.

Peter shrugged unapologetically. “I mean, yeah. It’s the best movie in the history of movies.”

“See, comments like that won’t fare well at a frat party. Seriously, Peter, I can handle this on my own. It’s probably better I don’t come in with an escort anyway.” She appraised him, then rolled her eyes. “I mean, you look like a lumberjack. No one’s going to buy you’re from Epsilon Tau or whatever your cover story is.”

“I can be a frat guy,” Peter said, offended.

“You’re a terrible actor. And kind of a nerd.” She couldn’t keep the grin off her face. In truth, she loved that he was a nerd. She loved this banter they’d perfected a decade ago. She loved…

 _Christ, stop it. You don’t love Peter Parker_.

She absolutely, positively couldn’t love Peter Parker.

“There’s nothing wrong with being a—” He cut himself off as another car drove by, as a couple guys laid on the horn and jeered at MJ through the open windows. Peter ground his teeth. “What is _with_ this campus tonight?”

“Oh, Tiger, it’s not the campus.” MJ drawled.

He looked at her, really looked for the first time since he’d picked her up. But just like then, he didn’t seem impressed with her slinky red dress, the one that required her to wear a thong so underwear lines didn’t show, the one that ended just below her ass cheeks and plunged into her cleavage.

It was sexy, and guys wouldn’t be able to resist it. Which was kind of the point.

“I don’t like this,” Peter said, for the hundredth time that night.

“Pete, some guy is roofying drinks and raping women.” MJ lowered her voice, glancing over her shoulder. They weren’t alone—it was a Saturday night near campus, so of course they weren’t alone—but none of the scantily dressed partiers strolling past them seemed to hear. “I don’t really have a choice here.”

Peter bristled. “You absolutely have a choice. You can choose not to dive into a party with a known predator, dressed like _that_.”

Wow. That hurt a lot more than she expected. Her confidence faltered, and anger flared. “I didn’t ask you to come. And if you’re going to make those comments, I’d rather you leave me alone tonight.”

She picked up the pace, trying to leave him behind, but he was in sneakers and she was sporting four inch stilettos. Even as practiced as she was in heels, they weren’t made for walking these distances. Peter outpaced her easily, positioning himself in front of her with a pained expression.

She stopped short, crossing her arms.

“MJ, wait, I didn’t mean—” he groaned, gripped his hair, tried again. “The cops are already looking into it. Why is this your problem?”

 _Why is anything your problem, Spider-Man?_ She wanted to ask. _Why are you the only one who gets to tackle crime? Why can’t I prove myself sometimes?_

But she didn’t say that. Instead, she looked him dead in the eyes. “Because I’m the one writing articles about those victims.”

A block away, bass-heavy music started, thrumming through the air.

“Party’s started. Stay or go, but I’m doing this.”

And MJ stepped around him.

 

* * *

 

 

She needed to prove herself, and it was Peter’s fault.

Not intentionally. He never purposefully made her feel _less_. But Peter was a goddamn superhero, and even though it was their dirty little secret, MJ couldn’t help factoring it into every interaction they shared, every accomplishment she achieved.

Maybe she got the editor job for the school newspaper two years younger than anyone in history.

But Peter stopped a bus of kids from plunging off the Brooklyn Bridge.

Maybe she was named “most promising sophomore” at the M. Bright College of Journalism, purely on the recommendation of her classmates and professors.

But Peter was a fucking _Avenger_.

And normally, that’d all be fine. She’d dealt with it for five years, helped from the sidelines and never felt worse because of his accomplishments. On the contrary, she always imagined herself as Spider-Man’s sidekick, Nurse MJ, a big reason behind his success.

But seven weeks ago, one morning before class, her foot caught on the top stair and her books went flying and her heart leapt into her throat, choking her, cutting off her scream as she grappled for the railing, as gravity took over and twenty-two concrete steps loomed before her—and then a strong arm circled her waist and something _schwicked_ by her ear and Peter steadied her on the landing and brushed webbing off her books with a wry smile and an amused, “Watch your step, MJ.”

That moment was all it took. Four seconds, and something shifted in MJ’s heart, like a heavy vault locking into place.

Her cheeks heated. Her heartbeat stuttered.

And suddenly, being a sidekick wasn’t enough.

 

* * *

  

Her heart pounded as she stepped into the party, half an hour after the music started. People were streaming in from all over, but while the scantily-clad women strolled inside without a care, the guys weren’t so lucky. Apparently men needed an invite.

She would have taken it as a sign to send Peter away again, but with the party upon them, her stomach flipped at the thought of confronting a rapist alone. Instead, she whispered, “Might want to swing around back,” and nodded towards the rooftops.

Peter pressed his lips into a tight line, but subtly changed course.

Inside, the party was just gaining traction. She hovered just inside the entrance, gathering her courage. It wasn’t enough to show up to the party in an ultra-short, ultra-tight dress. She needed to look _and_ act the part. Which meant she needed to be confident, but inviting.

Well, that was too high-society. What she needed was to act drunk and horny.

She squared her shoulders and strolled to the drink table.

She barely made it three steps before a guy intercepted her. He had acne, but was attractive enough, which obviously gave him the confidence to corner her against a wall and croon, “Hey, baby. You’re looking good tonight. You had a drink yet?”

Ugh. Sleeze. How her sorority contact stomached these parties, MJ had no idea. But she flashed a pretty smile and raised her voice an octave. “Aren’t you the charmer? Maybe you’d care to get me one.”

“Right away, beautiful.” He winked, led her to the table, poured a drink. She watched as subtly as she could, but he didn’t add anything to it. “Here, try this. It’ll get you lit.”

She giggled, opened her mouth to flirt back—how did girls flirt? God, her sister made this look so easy—but that’s when an arm draped over her shoulder. “There you are. Been looking for you, Mar—uh, _babe_.”

 _Oh god, Peter_. MJ barely refrained from rolling her eyes, but the damage was done. The frat guy scowled at Peter, who met his gaze just as resolutely, hazel eyes flashing. “You need something, friend?”

The threat was obvious.

The guy rolled his eyes. “Whatever.” And stomped off.

“That was painful to watch,” Peter muttered, releasing his hold on her shoulders. She missed his warmth almost immediately, but her indignation was running plenty hot now.

“I think you’re seriously missing the point of this,” MJ hissed, making a show of shoving him away. His eyes widened, but she stomped off, knowing he’d follow, counting on it. When she ducked into the bathroom, he trailed behind, hesitated at the doorway until she grabbed his arm and pulled him in.

The music thudded and conversation swarmed like an incessant din, but a hush settled as she closed the door. For added privacy, she leaned against the door, facing Peter with the guy’s drink in one hand.

“Okay, we have to talk,” she said. “This is an undercover assignment, Peter. You can’t just pretend to be my boyfriend all night.”

“Why not?”

Her heart seized and her mind screamed, _he wants to be your boyfriend_! But wow, that was conjecture at best. He didn’t want to be her boyfriend. He wanted to keep some random predator from incapacitating her and taking advantage.

She drew a deep breath through her nose. From Peter’s perspective, it might have looked like anger, but truthfully it was a steadying moment to get her emotions in check. God, why did he have to save her from that stupid fall? Things were so much easier when he was just Peter.

Not… _Peter_.

“No guy is going to bring me spiked drinks if he sees you lurking around,” MJ said, steadily.

“Guys shouldn’t be bringing you spiked drinks,” he replied, his chin jutting in an almost-pout. “In case you forgot, we’re not legal yet.”

“Oh my god, Pete.”

“What?” Now he looked annoyed. “This is a risky game, MJ. Rohypnol has no taste. Am I just supposed to wait until you pass out or start slurring your words? What about if your heart stops because your nervous system can’t handle liquor with the drug?”

Fear lanced up her spine, but she forced her expression to remain steady. Whether he knew it or not, she was doing this for _him_. “I’m not stupid, Peter. I’m not getting drugged tonight. I just want to pretend like I am, so we can stop it from happening to someone else later.”

Peter tossed up his hands. “That doesn’t sound dangerous to you?”

“It sounds about as dangerous as you fighting crime in a spandex suit, actually.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but someone tried the doorknob. MJ grabbed it, locked it, and the guy in the hallway pounded on the door. “Open up, I gotta go!”

“In a _minute_ ,” MJ shouted, irate. “Go puke in the bushes.”

“Bitch,” he snapped, and with another smack of the closed door, he stomped off. The hushed thumping of the music settled again.

Peter was drawn tighter than she’d ever seen him. His voice was a dark whisper. “This isn’t a game, MJ. This is your life.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” she said, drily. “I’m taking this seriously, Pete. Which is why I bought this.” She dipped her finger into the cup, then brushed the cold liquid against a white chip secured to the back of her phone. Peter squinted at it, eyes widening as two pink lines appeared on the tab. Clean.

“A drug test?”

“Well, it’s certainly not a pregnancy test.”

Peter snorted, and MJ offered a smile as she popped the used chip out of the holder, replaced it with a clean one. “Look, I just—I want to stop these assholes. You fight these people every day. It’s about time I contribute.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, drew a deep breath. Then, finally, he said, “Okay. What do you need me to do?”

“Well, a breakup would be helpful,” MJ replied, and cracked the bathroom door, heart racing. “Loud as you can, Parker. Let’s test that acting.”

“Great,” Peter groaned.

 

* * *

 

 

Initially, she wasn’t going to do anything about it.

Her weird, new crush on Peter.

So what if her heart seized every time he smiled? So what if she walked on air after he surprised her with morning coffee? So what if she obsessively checked her phone, mentally calculated when he’d texted last, so she’d know if it was _too much_ to text him again?

It was just a crush. Crushes could be ignored. In this case, they _had_ to be ignored; she’d been friends with Peter for over a decade. If he was at all interested in dating her, he’d have done something about it years ago.

“He asked you to prom, hon,” her roommate, Tiffany, pointed out, a wry smile on her lips.

MJ rolled her eyes. “That doesn’t count. He ditched me on the school stairs.”

“Yeah, because of a family emergency. Doesn’t mean he didn’t want a romantic night.”

Peter actually left because he’d gotten wind of a Kingpin crime in progress. Which MJ would forgive, except earlier that day, he’d stashed his suit on the roof _just in case_ … which meant MJ was never a top priority for him. But she couldn’t say that to Tiffany, so she just shrugged.

“Maybe.”

“I bet he’s been secretly in love with you for years, but he’s too scared to ask again. Oh my god, MJ, your life is like a Hallmark movie.” Tiffany nudged her, feigning a swoon. “You’re the literal Girl Next Door.”

“I mean, technically, I’m the Girl Four Streets Down.” But MJ couldn’t squelch her grin, or stop the way her heart hammered against her chest at the thought. Here, in the privacy of her dorm room, it was thrilling to imagine.

Didn’t mean she’d act on it.

She didn’t dare.

Because if there was one cold fact of life, it was that  superheroes didn’t date just anyone. No, they chose stunning, fantastic women with amazing accomplishments, charming wit, and unparalleled intelligence. They found women like Pepper Potts, or Peggy Carter.

MJ wasn’t like those women.

Not yet, anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

The party was in full swing now, so everyone heard their explosive “breakup.” Peter stalked off, grumbling under his breath, and MJ would never admit it, but his performance made her stomach twist. He was a shockingly good actor, considering how god-awful he was at lying.

She didn’t mean to finish the drink in her hands. But her mind was numb, hearing Peter raise his voice, scream at her just like—well, just like her father used to, before he was thrown in jail. She took a swig before she realized it, even as her phone vibrated, even as Peter’s text shone on the home screen when she glanced at it.

_That sure felt convincing enough. Go get ‘em, Tiger._

Her lips curled, and the alcohol burned her throat. It was vodka, probably cheap, watermelon flavored or something, and she’d never understood the phrase “liquid courage” until it flooded her chest and warmed her soul.

Peter wasn’t hovering anymore—he’d be nearby, but he still trusted her to handle this. And frankly, it was nice, knowing she had backup.

She read the text again. _Go get ‘em, Tiger._  

He’d never turned that nickname back on her, not once. It felt like a monumental shift in their relationship, the resolute moment where he acknowledged her worth, her abilities, and stepped aside to let her use them.

It felt like they were equals.

Partners.

For the first time, MJ felt invincible, a woman worthy of Spider-Man.

She downed the alcohol before she realized it, tossed the cup aside, and sashayed to the dance floor. Her mind buzzed as she laughed, tossed up her hands, thrummed to the pounding beat. A few guys cheered her on. Women got out of her way. It was exhilarating.

“Get you a drink?” a guy shouted in her ear.

“Absolutely.” She winked. “Extra strong.”

Two hours and several solo cups later, Frat Guy Number Six handed her a cup. And this time, the tiny white tab on her cell phone flashed one line.

Number Six. He even looked sleazy, with a backwards baseball cap low on his forehead, a calculating smile, bulging muscles and a strong-armed grip. His grin grew as she lifted the cup to her lips. It was hard to focus, but this was important.

This was _everything_.

She planned to pretend. Mouth the rim of the cup, feign swallowing, dump half the drink out when he wasn’t looking. Subtly record him trying to take advantage, then knock him out cold and call the cops. With the video and the laced drink, they should have enough to get this asshole.

That was the plan, anyway. But MJ hadn’t expected to be _so_ drunk when she got to this point. All night, she’d been monitoring, and all night she was fine—buzzed, but coherent. Until that last drink, which apparently was one too many. Funny how that threshold was such a fine line.

Now, the world spun around her. Her lightheaded buzz had shifted into pounding chaos. She tried to center her thoughts, but it barely worked now that she was clutching a roofied drink and staring down the would-be rapist who’d drugged it.

She raised the cup to her lips, following his mental script. _Come on, MJ. You can do this_.

But she wasn’t prepared for him to say, “Drink up, gorgeous,” and tip the bottom of the cup towards her.

The vodka sloshed over her chin. She nearly choked, accidentally swallowed what slipped between her lips. His gaze grew predatory as her dress soaked through, as she spluttered and thought, panicked, _I was just drugged._

She knew she hadn’t swallowed enough to incapacitate her, but it was still terrifying.

And infuriating. She suddenly imagined those other girls, the innocent women just looking to have a good time, who took a drink from this asshole and had no idea what would happen when they finished it.

How _dare_ he. Drunk or no, she was getting this guy.

This ended tonight.

Her heart raced as she made a show of taking Number Six’s hand, smiling alluringly. “Come on. Let’s take this somewhere more… quiet.”

“Anything for you,” he purred, and followed her up the stairs.

She hadn’t done this with anyone else. Peter had stayed out of sight all night, but she knew he was still around, felt her phone buzzing with his occasional texts since their “breakup.” Distantly, she hoped he was paying attention, hoped he’d realize Number Six was their target.

Hoped he’d follow them upstairs.

But if he didn’t, she’d handle it alone. This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Confronting a criminal, bringing him to justice. Yeah. She didn’t need Spider-Man for that. She didn’t need Peter Parker for backup.

The world spun, and she led the rapist into an empty bedroom.  

 

* * *

 

 

“Okay, I gotta ask. Is Peter single?”

The journalism building bustled, but a dangerous calm settled over them. MJ stiffened, eyes darting to the elevator, where the doors slid closed as Peter waved one final time. The coffee he brought was warm in her hands, his smile warm in her soul, but ice crystalized over the illusion.

She knew this would happen eventually. She just… didn’t expect it to happen before she recovered from her stupid crush.

Rachel was oblivious to MJ’s distress. She twirled in her rolling chair, cheeks darkening, a love-dazed smile on her lips. “I just—he’s always so nice. Bringing you coffee? That’s the dream. And he’s _cute_. I bet you haven’t noticed, since you’ve known him forever, but Mary Jane, he’s a total catch.”

 _I know_ , she thought desperately, hunching over the spread for their next newspaper, sprawled on the table before them. _Please don’t notice him. Please, please don’t see how amazing he is._

Too late.

“I don’t want to overstep boundaries. I know he’s your best friend. But… well, I thought I’d ask.” Her cheeks darkened further, and she self-consciously ran manicured fingers through her afro, pulled into a tight poof behind a cute yellow headband.

Oh god. The shitty thing was, Peter would absolutely adore her. Rachel was everything MJ would want her best friend to find: kind, thoughtful, generous, agreeable. She never ordered people around, and her daily mantra was “ _do my best.”_

She was perfect. The exact opposite of MJ, whose ambition made more enemies than friends.

Because there was another kind of woman superheroes liked. The quiet, supportive ones. The ones perfectly happy to stay at home, cook them dinner, kiss them goodnight. The kind of woman who’d raise his kids while he saved the world.

Peter would probably love that, the closet romantic that he was. MJ already knew she’d never be that person, but—maybe that’s what Peter wanted.

Maybe Peter wanted someone like Rachel.

“You’re not overstepping,” MJ said, fighting not to choke on the words. She kept her eyes on the pictures arranged before them, as if she was wholly dedicated to that task and not this conversation. “But—I don’t know if he’s single.”

A bold-faced lie; Peter wasn’t into dating, not with Spider-Man hanging over his head. He kept saying he didn’t have time.

 _He’d make time for someone like Rachel_ , her mind hissed, and MJ’s heart withered a little. She took a deep swig of the coffee he’d brought, but it tasted sour now, burning her throat.

“I can… I can find out, if you want.”

_Why did you SAY that?_

Rachel’s entire face lit up, bright and happy. “Oh my god, really? That’d be amazing! Are you sure you’d be okay with it?”

_NO!!_

“Yeah, of course.” MJ offered a weak smile.

Because it didn’t matter how she felt. MJ wasn’t fantastic enough to deserve someone like Peter, and she wasn’t going to risk their friendship testing those waters. But that didn’t mean Peter had to live like a priest while she sorted through her feelings.

If Peter could be happy with Rachel, who was MJ to stand in the way?

So even though she felt like she was dying, MJ forced herself to add, “Besides, Peter and I are just friends.”

“Oh, totally. He seems like an amazing guy to know; I’m kind of jealous—” Rachel prattled on, but MJ tuned out, blinking past suddenly burning eyes.

She scanned the newspaper spread again, settled on the top story: _FOUR WOMEN DRUGGED AT FRAT PARTIES_. Reread the headline six times, then glanced at the pictures they’d taken of the frat houses in question. While Rachel chatted about Peter and dating, cold determination nudged aside MJ’s growing despair.

Rachel could have Peter. That was fine.

But MJ would be damned if she twiddled her thumbs while they fell in love.

 

* * *

  

His hands were all over her, and MJ’s stomach roiled.

“Wait, wait,” she gasped, shoving Number Six away. It didn’t work; he was like glue, sidling right back. His hand squeezed her breast, and she cringed at the dull pain, the shock of it. Her phone was recording, but suddenly, this didn’t feel like a necessary evil to catching him.

This was wrong.

“Drink some more, baby,” he whispered, hot against her ear.

“Stop, I don’t want this.” She tried to enunciate, loud enough for the recording, but fear made her breathless, and she was still drunk. God, _why_ did she get drunk tonight? She thought it’d make things easier—get tipsy so she didn’t stand out, then use that new, bold courage to lure any guy she wanted.

But all she ever wanted these days was Peter, and he was nowhere to be seen.

Number Six crashed his lips against hers, his tongue shoving into her mouth.

 _Enough_.

She shoved him hard, abruptly enough that he crashed off the bed. “I said _stop_.”

“You bitch,” he snarled, leaping to his feet. Fear raced through her, but more than that. MJ felt hot with righteous indignation.

 _Bring it on_ , she thought, and braced herself.

 _Nope, nope, bad idea,_ her mind screamed, but the alcohol and adrenaline thrummed into a dangerous cocktail that made her certain she could take him. He lunged, and she kicked him where the sun don’t shine.

Turned out, even absolutely wasted, that area wasn’t hard to target.

He choked, strangled, and crumpled to the floor.

The door slammed open, and Peter barreled inside, taking in the scene in a second. He flinched at MJ’s disheveled dress, which was hiked up almost to her stomach after Number Six’s hands groped her thighs.

“Jesus, are you okay?”

“Oh, just dandy.” MJ’s cheeks burned. God, she never wanted Peter to see her like this. Even though he averted his eyes, she shimmied off the bed, yanked her dress back down in one fast move. Then fury curdled in her chest, and she kicked Number Six for good measure.

But he wasn’t quite out. His hand latched onto her ankle, and his nails dug into her skin.

“You fucking whore—”

Peter slammed his knee into the guy’s nose. It broke with a loud _snap_ , blood gushing down his face as he howled and reeled backwards. Peter regarded him, tight with fury, as if waiting for him to try something else. When he didn’t, Peter said, “Tell me you got what you need.”

MJ plucked the phone from her pocket, ended the audio recording. Her whole body felt like a live wire, pulsing with adrenaline. “Got it.”

“Good. Cause I called the cops.” Peter grabbed a discarded t-shirt from the laundry hamper, tugging it between his hands. Testing its strength.

“What?” MJ felt breathless. “Why would you—”

Abruptly, the music ended, and the shouting began. It sounded like chaos downstairs, with thundering footsteps and screaming, drunken variations of, “ _Shit! Run!”_ and _“Police! Get down on the ground!”_

Peter swiftly tied Number Six to the bedpost with the t-shirt. The guy moaned, utterly out of it, but Peter left him prone on the carpet with his pants unbuckled and his arms hiked over his head. He scribbled a post-it note that read, “ _Hi. I drug and rape women. Please arrest me_ ,” and stuck it to the guy’s bloody shirt.  

The weight of what almost happened faded into giddy excitement at their mission accomplished. MJ swallowed a snicker, grinning madly despite everything.

“Classy.”

“Classy guy deserves a classy arrest,” Peter replied, darkly. He found MJ’s red solo cup, still mostly full, and set it on the bed post with another sticky note: _“Test me!”_

Footsteps pounded up the stairs.

“Time to go.” Peter grabbed MJ’s arm, hauling her towards the window. The bedroom faced a back alley, and Peter wasted no time hiking it open. “Grab a hold,” he said, and webbed the opposite building. She clutched him far too tight, but he didn’t complain, just circled her waist, leapt out the window, and lowered them to the ground.

Cops were everywhere.

“Apparently university cops have nothing better to do,” Peter said wryly, disconnecting the webbing from his wrist. He kept a hold of her hand, pulling her in the opposite direction, towards the other street. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Pretty okay.” She laughed, dizzy with success. “We did it!”

“You did it. But you’ve also been drinking, so let’s _not_ get caught by the cops, huh?”

“Sure thing, Tiger,” MJ snickered, peeling off her heels.

He chuckled, and they ran.

  

* * *

 

 

Maybe she wasn’t Pepper Potts or Peggy Carter or Rachel from the campus newspaper, but in that moment, high off their success, MJ hardly cared. If she was ever bold enough to kiss Peter Parker, tonight was it.

Sue her.

 

* * *

 

 

It was _glorious_.

There was a tiny part of her that reasoned, during all those weeks of pining, that it would never be as amazing as she’d been building it up to be. Probably, his lips would be slimy, and he wouldn’t know how to kiss well. Wasn’t like he had a ton of practice. Probably, she’d try it, feel nothing, and they could both move on.

It was nothing like that. No, it was like Peter had been holding onto feelings just as potent as hers, just as simmering and passionate, and when she kissed him, they crashed to the surface.

For one, breathless moment, he kissed her back, hungrily, desperately, his hands winding around her waist and into her hair as her stomach flipped and her tongue probed his mouth. His hips pressed against her and there was no denying the stiffening bulge of his pants, and somehow that made things even _hotter_ , because the brick was rough against her back and his panting breath was hot against her nose and his lips weren’t slimy at all, they were firm and insistent and _god_ she love it, she loved _him_ , and maybe this could be their future—

And then he ripped away.

And her heart ripped with him.

“W-Wait, wait, we can’t—” he put as much distance between them as he could, practically crawling up the opposite wall to get away from her. MJ’s heart crushed into a million pieces at the betrayal on his face. “I don’t want this.”

Suddenly, the alcohol wasn’t causing her to float. Suddenly, it felt like an ocean of weight, pushing her deeper into the depths, drowning her in sorrow and frustration and embarrassment.

Christ, what the _hell_ had she been thinking?

“S-Sorry,” she gasped, nearly choking on the word.

He didn’t want this. He didn’t want _her_. No matter how invincible she’d felt in the moment, how brave and accomplished, she was never going to be enough for Peter Parker.

And how stupid of her to think she might be.

“Mary Jane,” he said, anguished. But he rubbed her off his lips, scrubbed her fingers from his hair. Erasing every moment of that memory.

MJ spun for the alley’s entrance. The cops were still out and about, and she wasn’t subtle in this dress, barefoot, her heels dangling from one finger, her hair disheveled, her makeup smeared. But honestly, she’d rather face arrest for underage drinking than _this_.

“Sorry,” she chanted. “I’m sorry.”

And this time, she ran alone.

 

* * *

  

Humiliation settled hot and fast as she slammed her door closed. The dorm room was dark, but Tiffany sat up as MJ leaned against the painted wood, shoved her palms against her wet eyes, shuddering for breath.

“MJ?” her roommate asked, and the light clicked on a moment later. Tiffany inhaled sharply, swung out of bed. “What happened? Are you okay?”

She couldn’t find the words. _I kissed him_ , she wanted to say, but the very fact made fresh tears pour down her cheeks. She shook her head, the image of his wide eyes, his downturned lips, permanently seared into her mind.

“Mary Jane.” Tiffany shook her shoulders.

MJ suddenly felt sick. Peter lived in this dorm, and the last thing she wanted to do was step back into the public hallway, possibly run into him after all that, but her insides roiled and the alternative was puking into a trash can while Tiffany watched. She grappled for the doorknob, flew down the hall, barely made it to a toilet before the night’s ministrations came full circle.

This seemed fitting, face burning with humiliation, sweat dripping down her face as she puked her guts out. A fitting end to a stupid, _stupid_ night.

A gentle hand twirled her hair out of her face, held it on the crown of her head. For a moment, MJ imagined it was Peter, ready to apologize, quiet and calm and steadying. But then Tiffany said, “Maybe frat parties aren’t for you, hon.”

MJ cried all over again, forehead pressed to the seat of the toilet.

 

* * *

 

They stayed up until nearly 4am.

Tiffany said it was necessary, unless MJ wanted to wake up puking again. How her father used to do this every night, MJ would never know. She personally wouldn’t be drinking again for a long, long time.

Someone knocked on the door a half hour after MJ staggered back from the bathroom. She was perched on her bed, trash can between her knees, pale and shivering and sick. Tiffany paused the movie, some animated musical that required no concentration, and peeked through the peephole.

“Oh, it’s Pete.” She reached for the doorknob.

“ _No_ ,” MJ gasped.

Tiffany regarded her for a moment. “Wait. Did _he_ do this to you?”

“Alcohol did this to me,” MJ moaned. Well, alcohol and a sip of Rohypnol, which Tiffany didn’t know about—and likely never would. MJ pulled the blanket over herself, and ensconced in the darkness, she was finally brave enough to whisper, “I kissed him, Tiff. And he—he didn’t—”

Peter knocked again. “Mary Jane? Please open the door.”

MJ didn’t move.

“Okay, hon. I’ll handle this.” Tiffany huffed and unlocked the door. MJ couldn’t see what she was doing, drowning in misery under her thick blanket, but her roommate’s icy tone was impossible to miss. “What do you need, Parker?”

“Is MJ here?” Now he sounded a bit desperate, like he couldn’t see the blob of blanket on her bed. So apparently Tiffany wasn’t giving him access to the room. MJ had never been so grateful for her roommate than that moment.

“Yep, she’s here.”

Silence.

It got awkward.

“Okay. I just—” Peter sounded beyond frustrated. “Is she all right?”

“Not gonna lie, Pete; you don’t have any right to ask that.” Tiffany’s voice was firm, bordering on annoyed. MJ peeked out from under the blanket, stomach clenching dangerously, but Tiffany was physically blocking the doorway and Peter couldn’t see beyond the two inches she’d allowed.  

He could muscle her aside in a second, but he didn’t.

“Come on, Tiffany. Please.”

“Try again tomorrow. Or next week.” She moved to shut the door, but Peter stuck his foot into the space. Tiffany glared. “What?”

“Just—keep an eye on her tonight. She drank a lot.” He drew a ragged breath. “And tell her… please tell her I’m sorry.”

Tiffany pressed her lips into a firm line. “Sure thing, Romeo.”

This time, when she slammed the door in his face, he didn’t stop her. They both waited for a few breathless moments, until Peter shuffled away from the door, until Tiffany—manning the peephole—relaxed and stepped back.

“Thanks,” MJ mumbled.

“We’ve all been there, hon,” Tiffany said, squeezing her shoulder. “But for what it’s worth, none of my strike-outs came back to check on me. Just saying.”

MJ clenched her eyes shut, and Tiffany settled back on her bed to watch the rest of the movie.

 

* * *

  

Three days later, the news broke about the campus rapist capture.

Well, MJ broke the news. She anonymously submitted the recording of Dave—that’s right, Number Six was named _Dave_ —to the campus police, and that, coupled with his appearance and the spiked solo cup, was enough for an arrest. Dave went to jail, and people hailed MJ’s in-depth article on the subject.

“Lander said it’s one of the most widely circulated issues in school history,” Rachel gushed when MJ stepped into their offices later that afternoon.

MJ glanced at their editor-in-chief’s office, the only professor supervising the student-run newspaper. The door was closed, but when he saw her through the glass, he flashed her a thumbs-up. MJ offered a shaky smile, trying to relish in the victory.

But the whole night just felt tainted.

MJ slumped at her desk, rubbing away the headache that hadn’t left in days.

Rachel perched next to her, rubbing her arm. “So I, uh, haven’t seen Peter around lately.” She was trying to play it cool, but MJ didn’t miss the way her eyes flicked to MJ’s coffee cup, as if she’d see evidence of Peter on the sleeve. “What’s he been up to?”

Peter hadn’t reached out to her at all since Tiffany sent him away. She didn’t know whether to be hurt or relieved.

“I didn’t have the chance to talk to him yet,” MJ replied, trying to brighten her glum tone. It wasn’t Rachel’s fault she crashed and burned. Wasn’t Rachel’s fault Peter had no interest in dating MJ at all.

Wasn’t Rachel’s fault they might not even be friends anymore.

Stupid. _Stupid._

Rachel tilted her head. “Oh, no worries! I wasn’t—sorry, I know you’ve been busy. I just got excited, but there’s no pressure. Really, I don’t mean to stress you out.”

Wow, apparently MJ sucked at hiding her issues. Guilt pricked her chest, and she drew a deep breath. “No, you’re fine. Sorry. It’s just… been a week.”

“Oh, I bet. I’d imagine interviewing a rapist was pretty scary. You’re really brave to get that story, MJ.”

God, she was so _nice_. Peter absolutely deserved someone like her. And it wasn’t like MJ had a shot, not anymore. Okay, then. Fine. Chest physically aching, MJ ripped a piece of paper off her notepad and scribbled a few digits, then pushed it towards Rachel.

“I probably won’t have time to see Peter for a bit, but—but you should text him,” MJ said, shakily. “Just tell him I gave you his number. He’s met you before; I bet he’ll be really excited to chat.”

Rachel’s smile was blinding. She literally squealed as she took the number. “Wow, thanks! Oh my gosh, when should I text? Should I wait a bit, or… is now a good time? No, I should probably wait.”

“Whatever you think,” MJ said, blinking at the tears suddenly welling in her eyes. She ducked her head and took her stupid, self-bought coffee cup and muttered, “I’m, um, gonna go use the bathroom. But good luck with Peter.”

Rachel hugged her.

MJ spent the next twenty minutes hunched in a stall, shoulders shaking, trying not to cry too loudly.

 

* * *

  

A week crept by, and MJ slowly clawed her way out of her misery. She wasn’t some goddamn damsel in distress, and she wasn’t weak enough to let some boy ruin her life. Peter was still out doing the Spider-Man thing—she got social media alerts whenever he tangled with a villain—and if he wasn’t wallowing, why should she?

Slowly but surely, the anguish transitioned into irritation. It sat like a lump in her gut, whispering validation.

Sure, she’d messed up, kissed him when he didn’t ask for it. But what the hell was he doing bringing her coffee and shit if he didn’t _like_ her?

And sure, Tiffany sent him away, but he still should have called her at some point in the last week. Did their decade of friendship really mean so little?

Maybe if he wasn’t so adorable and selfless and brave, she wouldn’t have fallen for him. Maybe if he hadn’t stalked her to that party, she wouldn’t have had the chance to push him against an alley wall and kiss him senseless.

It took two to tango, after all. Peter should share at least part of the blame. It made her feel better, anyway… and after a week of crippling humiliation, she clung to anything that made her less of a failure.

But the worst part?

Even past the haze of alcohol, there was a moment where she really thought he was kissing her back.

_Joke’s on me._

 

* * *

  

It was Sunday night, over a week since the party and Dave and the kiss. Tiffany got dressed for a rare night on the town with some of her high school friends, but she hovered by the door before leaving.

“You sure you’ll be okay?”

MJ waved. “I’m not a glass doll, Tiff. Somehow, I’ll manage.” But she grinned so her roommate would know she was fine.

“The great and powerful MJ, made of glass? I would never have guessed.” Tiffany rolled her eyes. “Well, okay. Enjoy your night, and try to have some fun.”

“You too.”

Once she was gone, MJ stared at the article she was supposed to be writing for Monday’s edition. The words swam together—she hadn’t been sleeping all that well in the last week, and in the quiet of her dorm, she silently admitted she was exhausted. Maybe she’d take a nap.

Of course, every time she closed her eyes, she saw the betrayed look on Peter’s face as he backed away from her in that brick alley.

MJ pushed away from the computer. Not a nap, and not work. Maybe a jog would clear her mind.

She was already wearing comfy sweatpants and a thin tank top, and she didn’t feel like changing. She banded her hair into a ponytail, tugged on some sneakers, and headed outside. It was brisk, cold enough she probably should have worn a jacket, and late enough the sun had already set.

MJ relished in the quiet calm of campus. Usually, it was bustling, but on a Sunday night there weren’t many people around. She stretched for a minute, then set off.

Didn’t make it two steps before something sharp and sticky slapped her shoulder blades, and her feet literally lifted off the ground. MJ yelped as she careened upwards, grappling for the webbing as Peter snatched her out of the air, positioned her carefully on the rooftop.

“ _Jesus_ , Pete, what the hell?” she hissed, whirling on him. Her back ached from the force of his pull, but he’d been webbing people a long time, so he knew how to lift someone without hurting them. Still, didn’t mean she appreciated sticky webbing gripping her skin like a messed-up band-aid. “There are easier ways to get a hold of me!”

“Is there? Because you haven’t been answering my calls,” he replied, desperately.

MJ bristled. “You haven’t called.” She reached for the webbing on her back, made a face when it stuck to her fingers next. “Get this stuff off me.”

He flipped his web shooters into a different mode, quickly dissolved the webbing with a spray of water.  

He wasn’t wearing his suit, she noticed. He’d even chosen a solid button-down shirt today, not plaid, as if he was trying to dress himself up—or distance her from the memories of his rejection.

Her stomach curdled, her heart hardening into stone. She suddenly felt so, so tired. Why did they have to do this tonight?

“Here, let me help.” He moved to brush her back free of the white residue.

“No, I’m good.” Her voice was neutral, but she added another few steps between them. The webbing was in an awkward spot, and she probably looked ridiculous wiping it free, but Peter didn’t say anything. Once it was off, she rubbed her wet hands on her sweatpants. “What, were you just waiting up here for me to step outside?”

“Yes.”

She stared at him. Whether or not it was true, she at least expected him to fumble through some excuse. But he looked unapologetically serious.

“… Why?” she asked, skeptically.

“You didn’t answer my calls. And—well, your roommate made it clear I wasn’t welcome inside.” Now he rubbed the back of his neck, wincing.

MJ plucked out her phone, tossing it to him. “You haven’t called, Pete. And if anyone’s making things clear, it’s you. Sorry I was such a bother, but the radio silence was a little excessive. I didn’t realize our friendship was so fragile.”

Her words were curt, but her cheeks burned. Because he hadn’t done anything to disrupt their friendship. _She’d_ kissed _him_. It wasn’t a surprise he needed space after that.

But she was scorned and angry, and just for a breathless moment, she wanted him to feel as bad as she felt all week.  

“It’s not—” he cut himself off with a strangled sound. “Look, see? I really tried to get in touch, MJ.” He pulled out his phone, showed her the outgoing calls. She dominated nearly every one for the last week.

Her eyes widened, and her traitorous heart skipped a beat.

 _He cares_ , her heart sung.

 _Shut up,_ she snapped back.

“I… didn’t get those.”

“That’s because you blocked me,” he replied, squinting at her phone now. His expression crumpled, looking more pathetic than a lost puppy dog. “Hang on, you blocked me? Jesus, are you that mad?”

Her mind spun. She definitely hadn’t blocked Peter, but only one other person knew what happened: Tiffany. Didn’t take a genius to realize what she’d done after MJ fell asleep that first night.

When she didn’t reply, he handed her phone back, shoulders hunched.

“Okay. I get it. I fucked up.”

She balked at the language, at the insinuation. “What?”

Peter looked miserable now. He scrubbed his face, brows knitting together. “Look, I—I know I’m not great at romance. And I know I miss clues sometimes. But I don’t understand what I did wrong, MJ. I thought we had something, and then you go and give my phone number to some other girl?”

MJ felt like she was careening off the side of a cliff. Or the Empire State Building.

“What?”

“Rachel,” Peter said, frustrated. “She’s texting me all the time. She’s nice, but MJ, I’m not interested in her. You know that, right?”

“No, go back. What do you mean, ‘we had something’?”

Peter stilled, rubbing his arm. “I mean… I thought we had something. Did we have something? It sure felt like—”

“You _rejected_ me,” MJ exclaimed, voice wobbling with emotion. “I kissed you, and you pushed me away. You told me you _didn’t want that_. So I gave your phone number to some other girl, because if you didn’t want me, maybe you’d want her!”

The color drained from Peter’s face. “Oh shit. MJ, I never meant that I didn’t want _you_. I just—you were so drunk—”

“Gee, thanks,” MJ said, aiming for sarcasm to hide the crippling embarrassment. Her insides churned, her heart clenching until she swore it wasn’t beating at all. “Sorry I was such an inconvenience.”

“You’re never—” Peter groaned, taking a few desperate steps towards her. “Look, I thought I was taking advantage of you, okay?”

“Taking advantage,” she repeated in utter disbelief.

Peter gripped his hair. “Well, _yeah_. I mean, you’d just gone through that with—with that asshole. If I came onto you twenty minutes later, in a freaking alley with you six drinks in, what kind of person does that make me?”

MJ’s world shattered. The meticulous walls she’d built in the last week, the ones where she convinced herself he didn’t care, that she didn’t need him, crashed down with enough force to make her stagger.

“I don’t… I don’t understand,” she said, faintly. “I kissed you. You weren’t interested.”

Peter stared at her. “Christ, MJ, I’ve been interested in you since senior prom.”

And he crossed the space between them in two quick strides, slamming his lips against hers.

This kiss was nothing like the sloppy one in that alley, where the world spun and she could barely keep her balance and there was a thrill at wondering how he’d react. This was solid and stable in a way she’d never felt, like he was pouring all his dedication into one single moment, telling her so clearly, without words, that she was _everything_ to him.

Her stomach dropped, her skin prickled, and her mind went blank. Peter pulled her flush against him, tipped her head back, ran his fingers through her hair. He bent her backwards, until she wasn’t even standing upright, until he was supporting most of her weight, until she felt like a movie star with her forever guy.

God, maybe her life was like a Hallmark movie.

When Peter finally pulled away, they were both panting, gasping for breath. She felt dizzy, heart swelling until she really thought it might burst out of her chest. She clutched his shoulders, the rock-hard muscles tensing as he pulled her upright, held her until she’d regained her balance.

It took a minute.

“Wow,” she finally said.

“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘ _damn_.’” His hazel eyes were bright, lips quirking into a wide smile.

“Okay,” she agreed. “Damn.”

He laughed, and the sound lifted her into the clouds. Peter bent down to recapture her lips, and she craned against him, her pulse quickening as she wound her hands through his hair, as his fingers tightened against her waist.

When he moved his attention to her jaw, her entire body seemed to go limp. Partly for distraction, because she should _not_ be this turned on by kissing alone, she gasped, “S-Someone’s going to have to tell Rachel.”

“Not it,” he replied, his nose tickling the shell of her ear, his soft breath sending goosebumps along her skin.

Then, to be honest, Rachel was the least of her worries.

 

* * *

 

When Tiffany came home a few hours later, MJ was draped over Peter’s chest. They stopped kissing when the door opened, but MJ didn’t have time to scramble off before her roommate strolled inside.

She stared at them staring at her.

And then she grinned. “Yes! I knew it!”

MJ’s cheeks burned, and Peter didn’t look much better. Didn’t help that they were both panting, that neither of them seemed to catch their breath in the last hour. She should have broken past the friendzone _years_ ago, because this was fantastic.

Peter thought so too, if a certain something was any indication.

“Next time, a sock on the door works great.” Tiffany winked. “I know how to make myself scarce.”

“We weren’t—We didn’t—” Peter stammered.

“Don’t hurt yourself, Parker,” Tiffany replied.

MJ kissed him again, then slid off the bed, crossing her arms. “Okay, Tiff, what the hell. You blocked Peter’s number on my phone? He was trying to call me all week!”

“Please. After what he did, a call was never going to suffice,” Tiffany replied breezily. She glanced at them again, grinning when Peter shifted to hide his bulging pants from view. “Besides, then you’d have missed out on all the fantastic makeup sex.”

“We’re not—” Peter tried again, but MJ cut him off with a hand.

“Shut up, Pete, the night’s still young.”

Peter turned red as a tomato.

It was a bold-faced lie, but MJ loved seeing him so embarrassed. Plus, Tiffany’s look of mild disgust was pretty amusing too.

“At least wait until I’m gone first,” she said, edging for the door.

MJ climbed back on the bed, kissing Peter hard. “Oh, I don’t think I can. You want to play matchmaker? Better be prepared to reap the rewards.”

“Revenge is not a good look for you, hon,” Tiffany remarked, twirling her keys on her finger. “But I do think the gym is calling my name. Looks like we’re all getting late-night workouts. Have fun, kids.” And she slipped into the hall.

“We’re not—” Peter called after her, but the door slammed closed before he could finish. He grumbled frustration. “I don’t like her.”

“Really? I think she’s great.”

He sighed. “Agree to disagree.”

MJ dropped against him, snuggling closer. “Whatever you say, Tiger.”

He grinned, flipping her over in one swift move. MJ swallowed a gasp as his lips crashed to hers. “God, I’ve been waiting so long to hear that.”

“Really?" MJ couldn't hide her deviant smile. "Well then. Looks like you won the jackpot.”

**Author's Note:**

> PSA: You can get the date rape drug testing chips MJ uses [HERE](https://www.undercovercolors.com/). They're made by a company called Undercover Colors. :)
> 
> Tiffany is the ultimate gal-pal. 
> 
> I almost made this M, but it turns out I suck at smut for the sake of smut. This was supposed to be that, and then a plot and angst and drama slapped me upside the head, and then I got to the end and was like, Eh, I've been writing all day. Fade to black. 
> 
> If you're still craving it, go check out [Okamichan6942's smut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Okamichan6942/pseuds/Okamichan6942), cause it's delightful. ;)


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